THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND MORE.

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300,000 More

WWe are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more,From Mississippi’s winding stream and from New England’s shore;We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear,With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear;We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;And children from their mother’s knees are pulling at the weeds,And learning how to reap and sow against their country’s needs;And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!You have called us, and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tideTo lay us down, for Freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside,Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look across the hill-tops that meet the northern sky,Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry;And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside,And floats aloft our spangled flag in glory and in pride,And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

If you look all up our valleys where the growing harvests shine,You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line;And children from their mother’s knees are pulling at the weeds,And learning how to reap and sow against their country’s needs;And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

You have called us, and we’re coming, by Richmond’s bloody tideTo lay us down, for Freedom’s sake, our brothers’ bones beside,Or from foul treason’s savage grasp to wrench the murderous blade,And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade.Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before:We are coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!

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By JOHN R. THOMPSON.

[During the battles in the Wilderness at the beginning of the campaign of 1864, General Robert E. Lee, impressed with the desperate necessity of carrying a certain peculiarly difficult position, seized the colors of a Texas regiment and undertook to lead the perilous assault in person. The troops and their colonel remonstrated with vehemence, the colonel, in his men’s behalf, pledging the regiment to carry the position if General Lee would retire. The troops advanced to the charge shouting “Lee to the Rear!” as a sort of battle cry.—Editor.]

DDawn of a pleasant morning in MayBroke through the Wilderness cool and gray;While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birdsWere carolling Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words.”Far from the haunts of men remote,The brook brawled on with a liquid note;And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, woreThe smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.Little by little, as daylight increased,And deepened the roseate flush in the East—Little by little did morning revealTwo long glittering lines of steel;Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,And the faces are sullen and grim to seeIn the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,Pealed on the silence the opening gun—A little white puff of smoke there came,And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.Down on the left of the Rebel lines,Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,Before the Rebels their ranks can form,The Yankees have carried the place by storm.Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,Where many a hero has found a grave,And the gallant Confederates strive in vainThe ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.Yet louder the thunder of battle roared—Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,Furies twain, through the murky air.Not far off, in the saddle there satA gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;Not much moved by the fire was he,Calm and resolute Robert Lee.Quick and watchful he kept his eyeOn the bold Rebel brigades close by,—Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,The Yankee batteries blazed away,And with every murderous second that spedA dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.The grand old gray-beard rode to the spaceWhere Death and his victims stood face to face,And silently waved his old slouched hat—A world of meaning there was in that!“Follow me! Steady! We’ll save the day!”This was what he seemed to say;And to the light of his glorious eyeThe bold brigades thus made reply:“We’ll go forward, but you must go back”—And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:“Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!”And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.Turning his bridle, Robert LeeRode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,Bursting the dikes in their overflow,Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.And backward in terror that foe was driven,Their banners rent and their columns riven,Wherever the tide of battle rolledOver the Wilderness, wood and wold.Sunset out of a crimson skyStreamed o’er a field of ruddier dye,And the brook ran on with a purple stain,From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.Seasons have passed since that day and year—Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear,And the field in a richer green is drestWhere the dead of a terrible conflict rest.Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furledThe flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;And down into history grandly rides,Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.[Southern.]

DDawn of a pleasant morning in MayBroke through the Wilderness cool and gray;While perched in the tallest tree-tops, the birdsWere carolling Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words.”

Far from the haunts of men remote,The brook brawled on with a liquid note;And Nature, all tranquil and lovely, woreThe smile of the spring, as in Eden of yore.

Little by little, as daylight increased,And deepened the roseate flush in the East—Little by little did morning revealTwo long glittering lines of steel;

Where two hundred thousand bayonets gleam,Tipped with the light of the earliest beam,And the faces are sullen and grim to seeIn the hostile armies of Grant and Lee.

All of a sudden, ere rose the sun,Pealed on the silence the opening gun—A little white puff of smoke there came,And anon the valley was wreathed in flame.

Down on the left of the Rebel lines,Where a breastwork stands in a copse of pines,Before the Rebels their ranks can form,The Yankees have carried the place by storm.

Stars and Stripes on the salient wave,Where many a hero has found a grave,And the gallant Confederates strive in vainThe ground they have drenched with their blood, to regain.

Yet louder the thunder of battle roared—Yet a deadlier fire on the columns poured;Slaughter infernal rode with Despair,Furies twain, through the murky air.

Not far off, in the saddle there satA gray-bearded man in a black slouched hat;Not much moved by the fire was he,Calm and resolute Robert Lee.

Quick and watchful he kept his eyeOn the bold Rebel brigades close by,—Reserves that were standing (and dying) at ease,While the tempest of wrath toppled over the trees.

For still with their loud, deep, bull-dog bay,The Yankee batteries blazed away,And with every murderous second that spedA dozen brave fellows, alas! fell dead.

The grand old gray-beard rode to the spaceWhere Death and his victims stood face to face,And silently waved his old slouched hat—A world of meaning there was in that!

“Follow me! Steady! We’ll save the day!”This was what he seemed to say;And to the light of his glorious eyeThe bold brigades thus made reply:

“We’ll go forward, but you must go back”—And they moved not an inch in the perilous track:“Go to the rear, and we’ll send them to hell!”And the sound of the battle was lost in their yell.

Turning his bridle, Robert LeeRode to the rear. Like waves of the sea,Bursting the dikes in their overflow,Madly his veterans dashed on the foe.

And backward in terror that foe was driven,Their banners rent and their columns riven,Wherever the tide of battle rolledOver the Wilderness, wood and wold.

Sunset out of a crimson skyStreamed o’er a field of ruddier dye,And the brook ran on with a purple stain,From the blood of ten thousand foemen slain.

Seasons have passed since that day and year—Again o’er its pebbles the brook runs clear,And the field in a richer green is drestWhere the dead of a terrible conflict rest.

Hushed is the roll of the Rebel drum,The sabres are sheathed, and the cannon are dumb;And Fate, with his pitiless hand, has furledThe flag that once challenged the gaze of the world;

But the fame of the Wilderness fight abides;And down into history grandly rides,Calm and unmoved as in battle he sat,The gray-bearded man in the black slouched hat.

[Southern.]

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Kearsarge and Alabama

(Action of 19 June, 1864.)

IIt was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,TheAlabamashe steam’d out along the Frenchman’s shore.Long time she cruised about,Long time she held her sway,But now beneath the Frenchman’s shore she lies off Cherbourg Bay.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!The Yankee cruiser hove in view, theKearsargewas her name,It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame;Her timbers made of Yankee oak,And her crew of Yankee tars,And o’er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send!“Bring on yourAlabama, and to her we will attend,For we think your boasting privateerIs not so hard to whip;And we’ll show you that theKearsargeis not a merchant ship.”Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,TheAlabamashe stood out and cannons loud did roar;TheKearsargestood undaunted, and quickly she repliedAnd let a Yankee ’leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!TheKearsargethen she wore around and broadside on did bear,With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear;When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars,For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!TheAlabamashe is gone, she’ll cruise the seas no more,She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman’s shore;Then here is luck to theKearsargewe know what she can do,Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!

The Yankee cruiser hove in view, theKearsargewas her name,It ought to be engraved in full upon the scroll of fame;Her timbers made of Yankee oak,And her crew of Yankee tars,And o’er her mizzen peak she floats the glorious stripes and stars.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!

A challenge unto Captain Semmes, bold Winslow he did send!“Bring on yourAlabama, and to her we will attend,For we think your boasting privateerIs not so hard to whip;And we’ll show you that theKearsargeis not a merchant ship.”Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!

It was early Sunday morning, in the year of sixty-four,TheAlabamashe stood out and cannons loud did roar;TheKearsargestood undaunted, and quickly she repliedAnd let a Yankee ’leven-inch shell go tearing through her side.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave.Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!

TheKearsargethen she wore around and broadside on did bear,With shot and shell and right good-will, her timbers she did tear;When they found that they were sinking, down came the stars and bars,For the rebel gunners could not stand the glorious stripes and stars.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!

TheAlabamashe is gone, she’ll cruise the seas no more,She met the fate she well deserved along the Frenchman’s shore;Then here is luck to theKearsargewe know what she can do,Likewise to Captain Winslow and his brave and gallant crew.Hoist up the flag, and long may it waveOver the Union, the home of the brave!Hoist up the flag, and long may it wave,God bless America, the home of the brave!

The Bay Fight

(Mobile Harbor, August 8, 1864.)

By HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.

TThree days through sapphire seas we sailed,The steady Trade blew strong and free,The Northern Light his banners paled,The Ocean Stream our channels wet,We rounded low Canaveral’s lee,And passed the isles of emerald setIn blue Bahama’s turquoise sea.By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,The palmy Western Key lay lappedIn the warm washing of the Gulf.But weary to the hearts of allThe burning glare, the barren reachOf Santa Rosa’s withered beach,And Pensacola’s ruined wall.And weary was the long patrol,The thousand miles of shapeless strand,From Brazos to San Blas that rollTheir drifting dunes of desert sand.Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay,The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,By beach and fortress-guarded bay,Sweet odors from the enemy’s shore,Fresh from the forest solitudes,Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—The bursting of his cypress buds,And the warm fragrance of his pines.Ah, never braver bark and crew,Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,Had left a wake on ocean blueSince Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!But little gain by that dark groundWas ours, save, sometime, freer breathFor friend or brother strangely found,’Scaped from the drear domain of death.And little venture for the bold,Or laurel for our valiant Chief,Save some blockaded British thief,Full fraught with murder in his hold,Caught unawares at ebb or flood,Or dull bombardment, day by day,With fort and earthwork, far away,Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.A weary time,—but to the strongThe day at last, as ever, came;And the volcano, laid so long,Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!“Man your starboard battery!”Kimberly shouted;—The ship, with her hearts of oak,Was going, ’mid roar and smoke,On to victory;None of us doubted,No, not our dying—Farragut’s Flag was flying!Gaines growled low on our left,Morgan roared on our right;Before us, gloomy and fell,With breath like the fume of hell,Lay the dragon of iron shell,Driven at last to the fight!Ha, old ship! do they thrill,The brave two hundred scarsYou got in the River-Wars?That were leeched with clamorous skill,(Surgery savage and hard,)Splinted with bolt and beam,Probed in scarfing and seam,Rudely linted and tarredWith oakum and boiling pitch,And sutured with splice and hitch,At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!Our lofty spars were down,To bide the battle’s frown(Wont of old renown)—But every ship was drestIn her bravest and her best,As if for a July day;Sixty flags and three,As we floated up the bay—At every peak and mast-head flewThe brave Red, White, and Blue,—We were eighteen ships that day.With hawsers strong and taut,The weaker lashed to port,On we sailed two by two—That if either a bolt should feelCrash through caldron or wheel,Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,Her mate might bear her through.Forging boldly ahead,The great Flag-Ship led,Grandest of sights!On her lofty mizzen flewOur leader’s dauntless Blue,That had waved o’er twenty fightsSo we went with the first of the tide,Slowly, ’mid the roarOf the rebel guns ashoreAnd the thunder of each full broadside.Ah, how poor the prateOf statute and stateWe once held these fellows!Here on the flood’s pale-green,Hark how he bellows,Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!Talk to them, Dahlgren,Parrott, and Sawyer!On, in the whirling shadeOf the cannon’s sulphury breath,We drew to the Line of DeathThat our devilish Foe had laid,—Meshed in a horrible net,And baited villainous well,Right in our path were setThree hundred traps of hell!And there, O sight forlorn!There, while the cannonHurtled and thundered,—(Ah, what ill ravenFlapped o’er the ship that morn!)—Caught by the under-death,In the drawing of a breathDown went dauntless Craven,He and his hundred!A moment we saw her turret,A little heel she gave,And a thin white spray went o’er her,Like the crest of a breaking wave;—In that great iron coffin,The channel for their grave,The fort their monument,(Seen afar in the offing),Ten fathom deep lie CravenAnd the bravest of our brave.Then in that deadly trackA little the ships held back,Closing up in their stations;—There are minutes that fix the fateOf battles and of nations,(Christening the generations,)When valor were all too late,If a moment’s doubt be harbored;—From the main-top, bold and brief,Came the word of our grand old chief:“Go on!”—’twas all he said,—Oar helm was put to starboard,And theHartfordpassed ahead.Ahead lay theTennessee,On our starboard bow he lay,With his mail-clad consorts three(The rest had run up the bay);There he was, belching flame from his bow,And the steam from his throat’s abyssWas a Dragon’s maddened hiss;In sooth a most cursed craft!—In a sullen ring, at bay,By the Middle-Ground they lay,Raking us fore and aft.Trust me, our berth was hot,Ah, wickedly well they shot—How their death-bolts howled and stung!And the water-batteries playedWith their deadly cannonadeTill the air around us rung;So the battle raged and roared;—Ah, had you been aboardTo have seen the fight we made!How they leapt, the tongues of flame,From the cannon’s fiery lip!How the broadsides, deck and frame,Shook the great ship!And how the enemy’s shellCame crashing, heavy and oft,Clouds of splinters flying aloftAnd falling in oaken showers;—But ah, the pluck of the crew!Had you stood on that deck of ours,You had seen what men may do.Still, as the fray grew louder,Boldly they worked and well—Steadily came the powder,Steadily came the shell.And if tackle or truck found hurt,Quickly they cleared the wreck—And the dead were laid to port,All a-row, on our deck.Never a nerve that failed,Never a cheek that paled,Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;—There was bold Kentucky’s grit,And the old Virginian valor,And the daring Yankee wit.There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,There were black orbs from palmy Niger,—But there alongside the cannon,Each man fought like a tiger!A little, once, it looked ill,Our consort began to burn—They quenched the flames with a will,But our men were falling still,And still the fleet were astern.Right abreast of the FortIn an awful shroud they lay,Broadsides thundering away,And lightning from every port;Scene of glory and dread!A storm-cloud all aglowWith flashes of fiery red,The thunder raging below,And the forest of flags o’erhead!So grand the hurly and roar,So fiercely their broadsides blazed,The regiments fighting ashoreForgot to fire as they gazed.There, to silence the foe,Moving grimly and slow,They loomed in that deadly wreath,Where the darkest batteries frowned,—Death in the air all round,And the black torpedoes beneath!And now, as we looked ahead,All for’ard, the long white deckWas growing a strange dull red,—But soon, as once and againFore and aft we sped,(The firing to guide or check,)You could hardly choose but treadOn the ghastly human wreck,(Dreadful gobbet and shredThat a minute ago were men!)Red, from mainmast to bitts!Red, on bulwark and wale,Red, by combing and hatch,Red, o’er netting and vail!And ever, with steady con,The ship forged slowly by,—And ever the crew fought on,And their cheers rang loud and high.Grand was the sight to seeHow by their guns they stood,Right in front of our dead,Fighting square abreast—Each brawny arm and chestAll spotted with black and red,Chrism of fire and blood!Worth our watch, dull and sterile,Worth all the weary time,Worth the woe and the peril,To stand in that strait sublime!Fear? A forgotten form!Death? A dream of the eyes!We were atoms in God’s great stormThat roared through the angry skies.One only doubt was ours,One only dread we knew,—Could the day that dawned so wellGo down for the Darker Powers?Wouldthe fleet get through?And ever the shot and shellCame with the howl of hell,The splinter-clouds rose and fell,And the long line of corpses grew,—Wouldthe fleet win through?They are men that never will fail,(How aforetime they’ve fought!)But Murder may yet prevail,—They may sink as Craven sank.Therewith one hard fierce thought,Burning on heart and lip,Ran like fire through the ship;Fighther, to the last plank!A dimmer renown might strikeIf Death lay square alongside,—But the old Flag has no like,She must fight, whatever betide;—When the War is a tale of old,And this day’s story is told,They shall hear how theHartforddied!But as we ranged ahead,And the leading ships worked in,Losing their hope to win,The enemy turned and fled—And one seeks a shallow reach!And another, winged in her flight,Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;—And one, all torn in the fight,Runs for a wreck on the beach,Where her flames soon fire the night.And the Ram, when well up the Bay,And we looked that our stems should meet,(He had us fair for a prey,)Shifting his helm midway,Sheered off, and ran for the fleet;There, without skulking or sham,He fought them gun for gun;And ever he sought to ram,But could finish never a one.From the first of the iron showerTill we sent our parting shell,’Twas just one savage hourOf the roar and the rage of hell.With the lessening smoke and thunder,Our glasses around we aim,—What is that burning yonder?OurPhilippi—aground and in flame!Below, ’twas still all a-roar,As the ships went by the shore,But the fire of the Fort had slacked,(So fierce their volleys had been,)—And now with a mighty din,The whole fleet came grandly in,Though sorely battered and wracked.So, up the Bay we ran,The Flag to port and ahead,—And a pitying rain beganTo wash the lips of our dead.A league from the Fort we lay,And deemed that the end must lag,—When lo! looking down the Bay,There flaunted the Rebel Rag:—The Ram is again under wayAnd heading dead for the Flag!Steering up with the stream,Boldly his course he lay,Though the fleet all answered his fire,And, as he still drew nigher,Ever on bow and beamOur Monitors pounded away;How theChickasawhammered away!Quickly breasting the wave,Eager the prize to win,First of us all the braveMonongahelawent inUnder full head of steam;—Twice she struck him abeam,Till her stem was a sorry work,(She might have run on a crag!)TheLackawannahit fair,He flung her aside like cork,And still he held for the Flag.High in the mizzen shroud,(Lest the smoke his sight o’erwhelm,)Our Admiral’s voice rang loud;“Hard-a-starboard your helm!Starboard, and run him down!”Starboard it was,—and so,Like a black squall’s lifting frown,Our mighty bow bore downOn the iron beak of the Foe.We stood on the deck together,Men that had looked on deathIn battle and stormy weather;Yet a little we held our breath,When, with the hush of death,The great ships drew together.Our Captain strode to the bow,Drayton, courtly and wise,Kindly cynic, and wise,(You hardly had known him now,The flame of fight in his eyes!)—His brave heart eager to feelHow the oak would tell on the steel!But, as the space grew short,A little he seemed to shun us;Out peered a form grim and lanky,And a voice yelled, “Hard-a-port!Hard-a-port!—here’s the damned YankeeComing right down on us!”He sheered, but the ships ran foulWith a gnarring shudder and growl:He gave us a deadly gun;But as he passed in his pride,(Rasping right alongside!)The old Flag, in thunder-tonesPoured in her port broadside,Rattling his iron hideAnd cracking his timber-bones!Just then, at speed on the Foe,With her bow all weathered and brown,The greatLackawannacame downFull tilt, for another blow;—We were forging ahead,She reversed—but, for all our pains,Rammed the oldHartford, instead,Just for’ard the mizzen chains!Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,And the stout hull ring and reel,As she took us right on end!(Vain were engine and wheel,She was under full steam,)—With the roar of a thunder-strokeHer two thousand tons of oakBrought up on us, right abeam!A wreck, as it looked, we lay,—(Rib and plank shear gave wayTo the stroke of that giant wedge!)Here, after all, we go—The old ship is gone!—ah, no,But cut to the water’s edge.Never mind then,—at him again!His flurry now can’t last long;He’ll never again see land,—Try that onhim, Marchand!On him again, brave Strong!Heading square at the hulk,Full on his beam we bore;But the spine of the huge Sea-HogLay on the tide like a log,He vomited flame no more.By this, he had found it hot;—Half the fleet, in an angry ring,Closed round the hideous thing,Hammering with solid shot,And bearing down, bow on bow;He has but a minute to choose,—Life or renown?—which nowWill the Rebel Admiral lose?Cruel, haughty, and cold,He ever was strong and bold;Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?He will think of that brave bandHe sank in theCumberland;Ay, he will sink like them.Nothing left but to fightBoldly his last sea-fight!Can he strike? By Heaven, ’tis true!Down comes the traitor Blue,And up goes the captive White!Up went the White! Ah, thenThe hurrahs that once and againRang from three thousand menAll flushed and savage with fight!Our dead lay cold and stark;But our dying, down in the dark,Answered as best they might,Lifting their poor lost arms,And cheering for God and Right!Ended the mighty noise,Thunder of forts and ships.Down we went to the hold,Oh, our dear dying boys!How we pressed their poor brave lips(Ah, so pallid and cold!)And held their hands to the last,(Those who had hands to hold).Still thee, O woman heart!(So strong an hour ago;)If the idle tears must start,’Tis not in vain they flow.They died, our children dear.On the drear berth-deck they died,—Do not think of them here—Even now their footsteps nearThe immortal, tender sphere—(Land of love and cheer!Home of the Crucified!).And the glorious deed survives;Our threescore, quiet and cold,Lie thus, for a myriad livesAnd treasure—millions untold,—(Labor of poor men’s lives,Hunger of weans and wives,Such is war-wasted gold).Our ship and her fame to-dayShall float on the storied StreamWhen mast and shroud have crumbled away,And her long white deck is a dream.One daring leap in the dark,Three mortal hours, at the most,—And hell lies stiff and starkOn a hundred leagues of coast.For the mighty Gulf is ours,—The bay is lost and won,An Empire is lost and won!Land, if thou yet hast flowers,Twine them in one more wreathOf tenderest white and red,(Twin buds of glory and death!)For the brows of our brave dead,For thy Navy’s noblest son.Joy, O Land, for thy sons,Victors by flood and field!The traitor walls and gunsHave nothing left but to yield;(Even now they surrender!)And the ships shall sail once more,And the cloud of war sweep onTo break on the cruel shore;—But Craven is gone,He and his hundred are gone.The flags flutter up and downAt sunrise and twilight dim,The cannons menace and frown,—But never again for him,Him and the hundred.The Dahlgrens are dumb,Dumb are the mortars;Never more shall the drumBeat to colors and quarters,—The great guns are silent.O brave heart and loyal!Let all your colors dip;—Mourn him proud ship!From main deck to royal.God rest our Captain,Rest our lost hundred!Droop, flag and pennant!What is your pride for?Heaven, that he died for,Rest our Lieutenant,Rest our brave threescore!

By reef and shoal obscurely mapped,And hauntings of the gray sea-wolf,The palmy Western Key lay lappedIn the warm washing of the Gulf.

But weary to the hearts of allThe burning glare, the barren reachOf Santa Rosa’s withered beach,And Pensacola’s ruined wall.

And weary was the long patrol,The thousand miles of shapeless strand,From Brazos to San Blas that rollTheir drifting dunes of desert sand.

Yet coastwise as we cruised or lay,The land-breeze still at nightfall bore,By beach and fortress-guarded bay,Sweet odors from the enemy’s shore,

Fresh from the forest solitudes,Unchallenged of his sentry lines,—The bursting of his cypress buds,And the warm fragrance of his pines.

Ah, never braver bark and crew,Nor bolder Flag a foe to dare,Had left a wake on ocean blueSince Lion-Heart sailed Trenc-le-mer!

But little gain by that dark groundWas ours, save, sometime, freer breathFor friend or brother strangely found,’Scaped from the drear domain of death.

And little venture for the bold,Or laurel for our valiant Chief,Save some blockaded British thief,Full fraught with murder in his hold,

Caught unawares at ebb or flood,Or dull bombardment, day by day,With fort and earthwork, far away,Low couched in sullen leagues of mud.

A weary time,—but to the strongThe day at last, as ever, came;And the volcano, laid so long,Leaped forth in thunder and in flame!

“Man your starboard battery!”Kimberly shouted;—The ship, with her hearts of oak,Was going, ’mid roar and smoke,On to victory;None of us doubted,No, not our dying—Farragut’s Flag was flying!

Gaines growled low on our left,Morgan roared on our right;Before us, gloomy and fell,With breath like the fume of hell,Lay the dragon of iron shell,Driven at last to the fight!

Ha, old ship! do they thrill,The brave two hundred scarsYou got in the River-Wars?That were leeched with clamorous skill,(Surgery savage and hard,)Splinted with bolt and beam,Probed in scarfing and seam,Rudely linted and tarredWith oakum and boiling pitch,And sutured with splice and hitch,At the Brooklyn Navy-Yard!

Our lofty spars were down,To bide the battle’s frown(Wont of old renown)—But every ship was drestIn her bravest and her best,As if for a July day;Sixty flags and three,As we floated up the bay—At every peak and mast-head flewThe brave Red, White, and Blue,—We were eighteen ships that day.

With hawsers strong and taut,The weaker lashed to port,On we sailed two by two—That if either a bolt should feelCrash through caldron or wheel,Fin of bronze, or sinew of steel,Her mate might bear her through.

Forging boldly ahead,The great Flag-Ship led,Grandest of sights!On her lofty mizzen flewOur leader’s dauntless Blue,That had waved o’er twenty fightsSo we went with the first of the tide,Slowly, ’mid the roarOf the rebel guns ashoreAnd the thunder of each full broadside.

Ah, how poor the prateOf statute and stateWe once held these fellows!Here on the flood’s pale-green,Hark how he bellows,Each bluff old Sea-Lawyer!Talk to them, Dahlgren,Parrott, and Sawyer!

On, in the whirling shadeOf the cannon’s sulphury breath,We drew to the Line of DeathThat our devilish Foe had laid,—Meshed in a horrible net,And baited villainous well,Right in our path were setThree hundred traps of hell!

And there, O sight forlorn!There, while the cannonHurtled and thundered,—(Ah, what ill ravenFlapped o’er the ship that morn!)—Caught by the under-death,In the drawing of a breathDown went dauntless Craven,He and his hundred!

A moment we saw her turret,A little heel she gave,And a thin white spray went o’er her,Like the crest of a breaking wave;—In that great iron coffin,The channel for their grave,The fort their monument,(Seen afar in the offing),Ten fathom deep lie CravenAnd the bravest of our brave.

Then in that deadly trackA little the ships held back,Closing up in their stations;—There are minutes that fix the fateOf battles and of nations,(Christening the generations,)When valor were all too late,If a moment’s doubt be harbored;—From the main-top, bold and brief,Came the word of our grand old chief:“Go on!”—’twas all he said,—Oar helm was put to starboard,And theHartfordpassed ahead.

Ahead lay theTennessee,On our starboard bow he lay,With his mail-clad consorts three(The rest had run up the bay);There he was, belching flame from his bow,And the steam from his throat’s abyssWas a Dragon’s maddened hiss;In sooth a most cursed craft!—In a sullen ring, at bay,By the Middle-Ground they lay,Raking us fore and aft.

Trust me, our berth was hot,Ah, wickedly well they shot—How their death-bolts howled and stung!And the water-batteries playedWith their deadly cannonadeTill the air around us rung;So the battle raged and roared;—Ah, had you been aboardTo have seen the fight we made!How they leapt, the tongues of flame,From the cannon’s fiery lip!How the broadsides, deck and frame,Shook the great ship!

And how the enemy’s shellCame crashing, heavy and oft,Clouds of splinters flying aloftAnd falling in oaken showers;—But ah, the pluck of the crew!Had you stood on that deck of ours,You had seen what men may do.

Still, as the fray grew louder,Boldly they worked and well—Steadily came the powder,Steadily came the shell.And if tackle or truck found hurt,Quickly they cleared the wreck—And the dead were laid to port,All a-row, on our deck.

Never a nerve that failed,Never a cheek that paled,Not a tinge of gloom or pallor;—There was bold Kentucky’s grit,And the old Virginian valor,And the daring Yankee wit.

There were blue eyes from turfy Shannon,There were black orbs from palmy Niger,—But there alongside the cannon,Each man fought like a tiger!

A little, once, it looked ill,Our consort began to burn—They quenched the flames with a will,But our men were falling still,And still the fleet were astern.

Right abreast of the FortIn an awful shroud they lay,Broadsides thundering away,And lightning from every port;Scene of glory and dread!A storm-cloud all aglowWith flashes of fiery red,The thunder raging below,And the forest of flags o’erhead!

So grand the hurly and roar,So fiercely their broadsides blazed,The regiments fighting ashoreForgot to fire as they gazed.

There, to silence the foe,Moving grimly and slow,They loomed in that deadly wreath,Where the darkest batteries frowned,—Death in the air all round,And the black torpedoes beneath!

And now, as we looked ahead,All for’ard, the long white deckWas growing a strange dull red,—But soon, as once and againFore and aft we sped,(The firing to guide or check,)You could hardly choose but treadOn the ghastly human wreck,(Dreadful gobbet and shredThat a minute ago were men!)Red, from mainmast to bitts!Red, on bulwark and wale,Red, by combing and hatch,Red, o’er netting and vail!

And ever, with steady con,The ship forged slowly by,—And ever the crew fought on,And their cheers rang loud and high.

Grand was the sight to seeHow by their guns they stood,Right in front of our dead,Fighting square abreast—Each brawny arm and chestAll spotted with black and red,Chrism of fire and blood!

Worth our watch, dull and sterile,Worth all the weary time,Worth the woe and the peril,To stand in that strait sublime!

Fear? A forgotten form!Death? A dream of the eyes!We were atoms in God’s great stormThat roared through the angry skies.

One only doubt was ours,One only dread we knew,—Could the day that dawned so wellGo down for the Darker Powers?Wouldthe fleet get through?And ever the shot and shellCame with the howl of hell,The splinter-clouds rose and fell,And the long line of corpses grew,—Wouldthe fleet win through?

They are men that never will fail,(How aforetime they’ve fought!)But Murder may yet prevail,—They may sink as Craven sank.

Therewith one hard fierce thought,Burning on heart and lip,Ran like fire through the ship;Fighther, to the last plank!

A dimmer renown might strikeIf Death lay square alongside,—But the old Flag has no like,She must fight, whatever betide;—When the War is a tale of old,And this day’s story is told,They shall hear how theHartforddied!

But as we ranged ahead,And the leading ships worked in,Losing their hope to win,The enemy turned and fled—And one seeks a shallow reach!And another, winged in her flight,Our mate, brave Jouett, brings in;—And one, all torn in the fight,Runs for a wreck on the beach,Where her flames soon fire the night.

And the Ram, when well up the Bay,And we looked that our stems should meet,(He had us fair for a prey,)Shifting his helm midway,Sheered off, and ran for the fleet;There, without skulking or sham,He fought them gun for gun;And ever he sought to ram,But could finish never a one.

From the first of the iron showerTill we sent our parting shell,’Twas just one savage hourOf the roar and the rage of hell.

With the lessening smoke and thunder,Our glasses around we aim,—What is that burning yonder?OurPhilippi—aground and in flame!

Below, ’twas still all a-roar,As the ships went by the shore,But the fire of the Fort had slacked,(So fierce their volleys had been,)—And now with a mighty din,The whole fleet came grandly in,Though sorely battered and wracked.

So, up the Bay we ran,The Flag to port and ahead,—And a pitying rain beganTo wash the lips of our dead.

A league from the Fort we lay,And deemed that the end must lag,—When lo! looking down the Bay,There flaunted the Rebel Rag:—The Ram is again under wayAnd heading dead for the Flag!

Steering up with the stream,Boldly his course he lay,Though the fleet all answered his fire,And, as he still drew nigher,Ever on bow and beamOur Monitors pounded away;How theChickasawhammered away!

Quickly breasting the wave,Eager the prize to win,First of us all the braveMonongahelawent inUnder full head of steam;—Twice she struck him abeam,Till her stem was a sorry work,(She might have run on a crag!)TheLackawannahit fair,He flung her aside like cork,And still he held for the Flag.

High in the mizzen shroud,(Lest the smoke his sight o’erwhelm,)Our Admiral’s voice rang loud;“Hard-a-starboard your helm!Starboard, and run him down!”Starboard it was,—and so,Like a black squall’s lifting frown,Our mighty bow bore downOn the iron beak of the Foe.

We stood on the deck together,Men that had looked on deathIn battle and stormy weather;Yet a little we held our breath,When, with the hush of death,The great ships drew together.

Our Captain strode to the bow,Drayton, courtly and wise,Kindly cynic, and wise,(You hardly had known him now,The flame of fight in his eyes!)—His brave heart eager to feelHow the oak would tell on the steel!

But, as the space grew short,A little he seemed to shun us;Out peered a form grim and lanky,And a voice yelled, “Hard-a-port!Hard-a-port!—here’s the damned YankeeComing right down on us!”

He sheered, but the ships ran foulWith a gnarring shudder and growl:He gave us a deadly gun;But as he passed in his pride,(Rasping right alongside!)The old Flag, in thunder-tonesPoured in her port broadside,Rattling his iron hideAnd cracking his timber-bones!

Just then, at speed on the Foe,With her bow all weathered and brown,The greatLackawannacame downFull tilt, for another blow;—We were forging ahead,She reversed—but, for all our pains,Rammed the oldHartford, instead,Just for’ard the mizzen chains!

Ah! how the masts did buckle and bend,And the stout hull ring and reel,As she took us right on end!(Vain were engine and wheel,She was under full steam,)—With the roar of a thunder-strokeHer two thousand tons of oakBrought up on us, right abeam!

A wreck, as it looked, we lay,—(Rib and plank shear gave wayTo the stroke of that giant wedge!)Here, after all, we go—The old ship is gone!—ah, no,But cut to the water’s edge.

Never mind then,—at him again!His flurry now can’t last long;He’ll never again see land,—Try that onhim, Marchand!On him again, brave Strong!

Heading square at the hulk,Full on his beam we bore;But the spine of the huge Sea-HogLay on the tide like a log,He vomited flame no more.

By this, he had found it hot;—Half the fleet, in an angry ring,Closed round the hideous thing,Hammering with solid shot,And bearing down, bow on bow;He has but a minute to choose,—Life or renown?—which nowWill the Rebel Admiral lose?

Cruel, haughty, and cold,He ever was strong and bold;Shall he shrink from a wooden stem?He will think of that brave bandHe sank in theCumberland;Ay, he will sink like them.

Nothing left but to fightBoldly his last sea-fight!Can he strike? By Heaven, ’tis true!Down comes the traitor Blue,And up goes the captive White!

Up went the White! Ah, thenThe hurrahs that once and againRang from three thousand menAll flushed and savage with fight!Our dead lay cold and stark;But our dying, down in the dark,Answered as best they might,Lifting their poor lost arms,And cheering for God and Right!

Ended the mighty noise,Thunder of forts and ships.Down we went to the hold,Oh, our dear dying boys!How we pressed their poor brave lips(Ah, so pallid and cold!)And held their hands to the last,(Those who had hands to hold).

Still thee, O woman heart!(So strong an hour ago;)If the idle tears must start,’Tis not in vain they flow.

They died, our children dear.On the drear berth-deck they died,—Do not think of them here—Even now their footsteps nearThe immortal, tender sphere—(Land of love and cheer!Home of the Crucified!).

And the glorious deed survives;Our threescore, quiet and cold,Lie thus, for a myriad livesAnd treasure—millions untold,—(Labor of poor men’s lives,Hunger of weans and wives,Such is war-wasted gold).

Our ship and her fame to-dayShall float on the storied StreamWhen mast and shroud have crumbled away,And her long white deck is a dream.

One daring leap in the dark,Three mortal hours, at the most,—And hell lies stiff and starkOn a hundred leagues of coast.

For the mighty Gulf is ours,—The bay is lost and won,An Empire is lost and won!Land, if thou yet hast flowers,Twine them in one more wreathOf tenderest white and red,(Twin buds of glory and death!)For the brows of our brave dead,For thy Navy’s noblest son.

Joy, O Land, for thy sons,Victors by flood and field!The traitor walls and gunsHave nothing left but to yield;(Even now they surrender!)

And the ships shall sail once more,And the cloud of war sweep onTo break on the cruel shore;—But Craven is gone,He and his hundred are gone.

The flags flutter up and downAt sunrise and twilight dim,The cannons menace and frown,—But never again for him,Him and the hundred.

The Dahlgrens are dumb,Dumb are the mortars;Never more shall the drumBeat to colors and quarters,—The great guns are silent.

O brave heart and loyal!Let all your colors dip;—Mourn him proud ship!From main deck to royal.God rest our Captain,Rest our lost hundred!

Droop, flag and pennant!What is your pride for?Heaven, that he died for,Rest our Lieutenant,Rest our brave threescore!

O Mother Land! this weary lifeWe led, we lead, is ’long of thee;Thine the strong agony of strife,And thine the lonely sea.Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,The weary rows of cots that lieWith wrecks of strong men, marred and rent,’Neath Pensacola’s sky.And thine the iron caves and densWherein the flame our war-fleet drives;The fiery vaults, whose breath is men’sMost dear and precious lives!Ah, ever when with storm sublimeDread Nature clears our murky air,Thus in the crash of falling crimeSome lesser guilt must share.Full red the furnace fires must glowThat melt the ore of mortal kind;The mills of God are grinding slow,But ah, how close they grind!To-day the Dahlgren and the drumAre dread Apostles of His Name;His kingdom here can only comeBy chrism of blood and flame.Be strong: already slants the goldAthwart these wild and stormy skies;From out this blackened waste, beholdWhat happy homes shall rise!But see thou well no traitor gloze,No striking hands with Death and Shame,Betray the sacred blood that flowsSo freely for thy name.And never fear a victor foe—Thy children’s hearts are strong and high;Nor mourn too fondly; well they knowOn deck or field to die.Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,Though, ever smiling round the brave,The blue sea bear us on to death,The green were one wide grave.

O Mother Land! this weary lifeWe led, we lead, is ’long of thee;Thine the strong agony of strife,And thine the lonely sea.

Thine the long decks all slaughter-sprent,The weary rows of cots that lieWith wrecks of strong men, marred and rent,’Neath Pensacola’s sky.

And thine the iron caves and densWherein the flame our war-fleet drives;The fiery vaults, whose breath is men’sMost dear and precious lives!

Ah, ever when with storm sublimeDread Nature clears our murky air,Thus in the crash of falling crimeSome lesser guilt must share.

Full red the furnace fires must glowThat melt the ore of mortal kind;The mills of God are grinding slow,But ah, how close they grind!

To-day the Dahlgren and the drumAre dread Apostles of His Name;His kingdom here can only comeBy chrism of blood and flame.

Be strong: already slants the goldAthwart these wild and stormy skies;From out this blackened waste, beholdWhat happy homes shall rise!

But see thou well no traitor gloze,No striking hands with Death and Shame,Betray the sacred blood that flowsSo freely for thy name.

And never fear a victor foe—Thy children’s hearts are strong and high;Nor mourn too fondly; well they knowOn deck or field to die.

Nor shalt thou want one willing breath,Though, ever smiling round the brave,The blue sea bear us on to death,The green were one wide grave.

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